***
Hige sceal þe heardra, heorte þe cenre,
mod sceal þe mare þe ure maegen lytlað.
***
There would come a time and a day when Gamling would remember clearly the horror of cresting the ridge and seeing the enormous horde attacking the fabled city of Minas Tirith.
Today was not that day.
There would come a time and a place where he would remember the smell, the stench of Orc and fire and blood rising from Pelennor Fields.
Today was not that day.
There would come a time when he would remember the blood rising, his adrenaline cresting as Théoden King called the Rohirrim to arms.
Now was not that time.
There would come an hour when he would remember the pride of being told to follow the King's banner, down the center, leading one third of the …orlings into battle, now the Marshal behind Rohan's ruler.
Now was not that hour.
In the days, weeks, months, years, to come, he would clearly remember his sight going red; he would understand explicitly the meaning of 'berserking'.
He would remember the wind rushing through his hair.
He would remember the battle cries of the Rohirrim.
He would remember the joy of watching the entire Orc army, regrouping, taking their attention from the city, and turning it to the Horse Lords bearing down on them.
He would remember the sound of Dréogan screaming, as he bore his Rider into the thick of the fray.
He would remember the sound of his sword as he pulled it from its scabbard and would remember the feel of the ribband wound around his sword hand. For a fleeting moment, he would remember the woman back in Edoras; she made him angrier than a sudden thunderstorm, softer than a goose feather pillow, harder than the granite that lined the river of his youth, and made him sigh with unending comfort. For a scant second, he could hear her voice... *Just Gamling*... for that fleeting moment, he was glad he caught her, glad she was safe in Edoras, with …owyn, glad she was not being subjected to this.
He would remember the sound of arrows whizzing past his ear, remember the fury he felt when a surface cut appeared on Dréogan's flank, and Dréogan's responding scream of burning pain and anger. In time, he would know that Rohirrim fell behind him.
He would understand on the morrow, that the reason his throat was sore, was due to the battle cry, which issued, unendingly from his mouth.
He would remember basking in satisfaction for a blink of an eye, as the Orcs backed up, dropping their weapons.
He would remember seeing Théoden disappear into a sea of Orc rabble.
And following.
There would come a time when he would remember Dréogan bunching under him, feeling him angle, leap up and over, hooves lashing out, rushing headlong into the rabble of Orcs, feeling them fall beneath his stallion's hooves.
He would remember the gloating he felt at seeing the fear on the Orcs' faces as they realized they were no longer winning; that Gondor was no longer alone, that aid had come in the form of armed men on creatures with angry hooves, snorting steam and blood. He would remember the rush of adrenalin as the Orcs turned and ran.
Ran and scattered like the scuttling cockroaches they were.
At this moment, he did not remember any of this.
There would come a second, a snap of the fingers, when he would remember hearing the horns of the Haradrim...
Hearing their singing, chanting...
The Mûmakil...
In time, he would remember dismounting, following Théoden's orders, to sound the horn, to regroup the Rohirrim...
***Reform the line reform the line...***
He would never remember pulling his bow from his saddle, would not remember grabbing a handful of arrows from his quiver. He would remember the tautness, the pull of the string, the vibration as he released the arrow and nocked the next...
***bring it down bring it down bring it down...***
At some moment in time, he would remember seeing the crazy Rohirrim that rode beneath one mûmak, a sword in each hand...
But right now, that memory did not register.
Someday, someone would tell him of …omer, spear in hand, throwing it, bringing down the front rider, effectively taking out not only the mûmak and its accompanying contingent of archers, but the one next to it as well.
***bring it down bring it down bring it down...***
In time, he would remember the fear he felt as he remounted and charged the Haradrim line. He would remember watching Horse and Rider being swept aside, flying through the air, as the Haradrim and their beasts advanced and decimated the lines of the Horse Lords.
He had been correct; the wailing in Rohan would be unrivaled.
In the days to come, he would remember the disbelief that he had survived the initial line of the Haradrim; that he lived to turn and attack once again. He would remember the dread he felt as he rode beneath one of the giant monsters, realizing it was Ceneden beside him for a scant second before hearing the Rider's bones crunch as he and his destrier were stepped on...
***Béma take you swiftly on his wings...***
...crushed into the dirt...trusting Dréogan to shift and feint, as he aimed upwards...
***bring it down bring it down bring it down...***
...barely clearing its underbelly as it fell.
For years, well into his old age, when he pulled his chair closer and closer to the fire for warmth, he would delve into his memory, try to remember how he had become so far separated from his king...
He would remember the Ring Wraith flying over and landing, he would remember seeing Snowmane flying, knowing, knowing, knowing Théoden flew with him. He would remember trying to cut through the hordes of downed Haradrim, the returning Orcs, cursing, damning each and every one that stood between him and his lord.
He would remember the lone Rider who stood up between the Wraith and the king.
Seeing the morningstar.
And realizing in horror that the Rider was no man.
In time, he would remember the screeching of the Army of the Dead, grateful that Aragorn had finally arrived.
In time, the battle would end and he would well remember it all. Every grisly, wretched detail.
But now was not the time.
For this moment, the only thing he was aware of was the feel of the broken body of his king in his arms-
***if I should fall if I should fall if I should fall...***
-the desolate feeling that he had failed his liege...
...and the sound of …omer, screaming.
***
Translation:
the Rohirrim (?): 'Will shall be the sterner, heart the bolder,
spirit the greater as our strength lessens.'